


Call and Response

by Lemon_Lemmings



Category: Tangled (2010), Tangled: The Series (Cartoon)
Genre: Arguing, Awkwardness, Father-Son Relationship, Fever, Gen, Season/Series 01, Sickfic, Strained Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 05:17:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15901644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemon_Lemmings/pseuds/Lemon_Lemmings
Summary: “Are you alright?”“Y-Yeah.”Quirin studies him, doubtful. Suddenly it seems there’s another explanation for his son’s uncharacteristic silence and lack of appetite. He reaches across the table and slips his hand under Varian’s bangs, palming at his forehead. Varian squirms away before Quirin can determine if he’s feverish or not.





	Call and Response

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously takes place before Quirin gets stuck in amber. Missing my gf hardcore rn and bawling my eyes out over Adventure Time so I doubt I'll finish this. I don't know. I'm high so there's probably tons of typos.

Varian usually babbles at breakfast, about all about his experiments and projects and things Quirin doesn’t entirely understand. It’s annoying and endearing, though mostly endearing. Quirin is blessed to have such a bright boy and there’s something to be admired about his son’s tenacity.

The only thing he’s through hearing about is the rocks. He’s told Varian time and time again to stay away from those damned dangerous rocks, and it’s about time he’s learned to show some caution. Varian’s bright, but he’s also reckless and he gets ahead of himself sometimes, so absorbed in alchemy he doesn’t pay attention to his surroundings.

During yesterday’s meal, he brought up the rocks and Quirin yelled at him rather harshly. He can’t say he completely regrets it. Varian’s carelessness scares the shit out of him sometimes. If he needs to be stern to get through to his son, then so be it. Perhaps this time the message was received, because Varian is quiet this morning.

He doesn’t mention the rocks. In fact, he doesn’t speak at all. He nibbles at a biscuit with disinterest and ignores the eggs altogether.

Well, hell.

Quirin only wanted the boy to behave, he didn’t want him to go on a hunger strike. Maybe he was too hard on him. He didn’t mean to be. But it’s exasperating having to clean up mess after mess and take care of the damage control when Varian’s projects go awry. It’s worrying how blasé Varian approaches the rocks. The potential of grave consequence never seems to make it through his skull unless Quirin yells.

But that doesn’t mean he likes it, and his goal is never to shut Varian down. Quirin sets down his silverware and awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, at a loss for what to say. More yelling won’t help. He doesn’t want to apologize because that might just encourage the recklessness. How should he—

Varian interrupts his line of thought with a few coughs muffled into his shoulder. And Quirin pauses, frowning.

“Are you alright?”

“Y-Yeah.”

Quirin studies him, doubtful. Suddenly it seems there’s another explanation for his son’s uncharacteristic silence and lack of appetite. He reaches across the table and slips his hand under Varian’s bangs, palming at his forehead. Varian squirms away before Quirin can determine if he’s feverish.

“Dad, really,” he protests. “It’s just a cough.”

“You’ve barely touched your food,” Quirin points out.

“I’m just tired. I was up late going over the results of my latest experiment on…” Varian trails off, face paling.

Quirin feels a familiar, sinking dismay.

“The rocks,” he finishes for him. “Even though I’ve repeatedly told you to stay away from them.”

A stubborn spark glints in Varian’s eyes and he stands up in his seat, hands firmly clapped down on the tabletop.

“Something needs to be done about them! I’m just trying to help, that’s all I ever want to do! Don’t you get that?”

Before Quirin can respond, Varian snaps forward in another coughing bout. He curls a gloved hand around his mouth and hacks into it, and it sounds a bit more forceful than the first fit. The first fit Quirin heard anyway, who’s to say if this wasn’t going on last night?

It’s obviously not something Varian considers worrisome.

“Why do you think you’re getting sick?” Quirin snaps, concern breeding frustration. “You spend all your time in that cold, damp cellar—“

“Lab,” Varian interjects, voice rough from the coughs.

“You hardly sleep! You’re down there from sun to sun without any windows, inhaling all the fumes from those potions!”

“They’re not potions, they’re formulas,” Varian insists. “And I’m not sick.”

His declaration of not being sick is punctuated with a couple contradictory coughs into his hand.

Quirin groans and rubs his temples. Arguing isn’t getting them anywhere.

“Varian…just rest today, please. Go back to bed and keep warm.”

His son grimaces disagreeably and for a moment, Quirin thinks he’s apt to argue. But then he just sighs and slumps back into his chair.

“Fine,” he agrees reluctantly.

“I’ll try to make it back early tonight,” Quirin offers.

A small smile flickers over Varian’s lips, his attitude seemingly pacified.

“That’d be nice,” he agrees. 

* * *

Quirin puts in a bit more of a half day of work, tending the fields. He returns to a startlingly silent home.

Usually he returns to booms and clatters, the chaotic cacophony of his son’s adventures in the cellar. He normally walks through the door only to have his ears knifed by explosions from below. Oddly enough…the quiet seems more concerning.

It’s not that he’s unconcerned about the explosions, mind. But he’s grown so accustomed to them that their absence is abnormal. Hopefully this is a sign Varian actually stayed in bed.

Quirin shuffles down the hallway to check, peeking into the boy’s bedroom. The bed is unmade, but empty. The absence of Varian is not nearly as surprising as the absence of the noise. He just doesn’t listen.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Quirin makes his way to cellar. A lantern on Varian’s workbench gives off a dim amber glow. Blueprints and gadgets lay scattered about. He walks deeper inside, frowning as he searches with his eyes. Maybe Varian isn’t here after all.

Quirin turns to go back up the steps and freezes when he sees the toe of a boot peeking out from behind one of Varian’s machines. Jolted with alarm, Quirin hurries over, breath catching at the sight of his son sprawled across the floor.

“Varian!”

Quirin kneels down and scoops the boy into his lap. He burns against Quirin like a bundle of cinders. His lashes flutter open, eyes shiny as marbles.

“Dad?”

“What did I tell you?” he snaps, voice rising with distress. “You were supposed to take it easy, now you’re burning up!”

Varian curls forward, coughing pitifully. Quirin pulls the goggles off, releasing his greasy hair. He presses the inside of his wrist to Varian’s forehead and it’s so hot it feels like getting a steam burn. He feels the back of his radish red cheeks and the sides of neck. His son’s skin is beaded with sweat, like beads of oil sizzling on a skillet.

Varian doesn’t respond to the scolding and Quirin isn’t sure if it’s because he doesn’t have the strength to argue, or if he’s just too out of it to fire back a rebuttal. Neither thought is comforting.

Quirin cradles Varian to his chest and stands. Varian is limp as a doll in his arms, limbs dangling. Quirin trots up the stairs and carries him to his room, gently laying him on the bed. He pulls the gloves off Varian’s hands and unties his stained apron, removes the boots from his feet. Varian coughs some more and Quirin doesn’t like the sound of it.

It doesn’t sound like a common cold cough. It comes deep from his son’s chest, thick and wet.

“Thanks, Dad,” Varian mumbles.

Quirin pauses and purses his lips.

“I should get the doctor. I should’ve gotten him this morning.” Quirin smooths the damp bangs back from Varian’s face. “I should’ve taken care of this, I should’ve taken care of you.”

“Wait…don’t go.”

“I have to, you need a doctor.”

“I need you more,” Varian croaks. “Dad, please don’t leave me alone.”

Quirin’s heart writhes in his chest. Medical attention is more useful than comfort, and comfort is all Quirin can provide. He isn’t equipped to make a diagnosis or give him a dosage. And yet, he can’t refuse the look his son is giving him, nakedly pleading.

It is later in the day. If Quirin leaves now, by the time he gets to town, it’s entirely possible the infirmary will be closed anyway. Tonight he can do his best to take care of Varian, then first thing in the morning he’ll leave for the doctor.

“Okay,” Quirin agrees, gently patting his son’s flushed cheek. “Let’s get you settled in, hm?”

Varian nods tiredly and relaxes back into the pillow.

Quinn fetches him a quilt from the closet, more lightweight than the wool blanket on the floor. Something to keep Varian comfortable that won’t cook him in his own fever heat. He pulls it up to his shoulders and tucks him in. Varian watches blearily.

“I’ll get you some water too.”

Varian hums a soft, noncommittal noise and closes his eyes.

Quirin takes an empty pitcher to the pump. He first fills a glass and brings it to his son to drink, then fills a basin and sets it on Varian’s nightstand, soaking a cloth. He watches Varian sip the water, hand shaky around the the glass. Some splashes around his mouth, droplets rolling down his chin.

Without thinking much of it, Quirin slides his own hand overtop and holds it steady. Varian shoots him a brief look of surprise.

“Take a good long swallow,” Quirin instructs softly. “You need the fluids.”

Varian nods and swills deeply. He makes it through half the glass before he begins to cough. Quirin sets it on the counter and gives his son’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. It’s a forceful, leaving Varian near breathless.

“I wasn’t gonna mess with the rocks today,” he rasps.

“Let’s not talk about it, Varian,” Quirin sighs, having no desire to argue. “Just rest.”

“No, really,” Varian insists. “I wanted to make medicine. I thought I could, we’ve got peppermint in the garden. And thyme. Both are supposedly good for coughs. I thought if I could extract the oils and mix the with honey, I could make a suppressant.”

Quirin raises a brow, unsure if he should be impressed or exasperated.

“It doesn’t sound like it worked,” he says evenly, wringing the cloth above the basin.

“I didn’t get that far,” Varian mumbles.

“How long were you down there?” Quirin asks, folding the cloth in half.

“Um…I-I don’t know,” he stutters, visibly unnerved by the admission.

“That’s okay,” Quirin says lightly, trying to portray an air of calm. He prays it wasn’t long. The thought of his son passed out on the cold dirt floor for— well, potentially hours is frightening!

Chewing at his lower lip, Quirin brushes back Varian’s bangs. He plasters the cool cloth to his forehead. Varian gives a little quiver.

“Ooh, cold,” he pules, grimacing.

“Bare it,” Quirin urges gently. “We need to take care of that fever.”

“Okay,” Varian sighs, resigned.

Quirin smiles sympathetically and cards his fingers through Varian’s hair. “You’re going to be alright. You’re tough as nails, just like your mother.”

Surprise flickers over Varian’s features. They rarely speak of her, especially these days. But his lips lift in a tentative smile and Quirin does something else he hasn’t done in a long time either, he bends and presses a kiss to the top of his son’s head.

“Dad…”

“Hm?”

Varian’s gaze shifts to the wall and back again. After a pause, he releases a weary breath and just shakes his head.

“It’s nothing.”

“No, what?” Quirin blinks rapidly, perplexed.

But Varian starts coughing again, harsh. The coughs rip themselves from his son’s narrow ribcage, still unpleasantly thick sounding. Quirin hates that he’s so helpless. It’s his job as a father to protect his son. But he can’t protect him from invisible enemies like illnesses.

Varian catches his breath and lets out a soft groan. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been sick. I forgot how awful it feels.”

It feels awful to see him like this too. Flushed with a fever so high even his ears are red. Worn out as an old rug.

“Let this be a lesson,” Quirin declares. “You need to stop running yourself ragged with all those experiments.”

Varian seems to deflate, gaze dimming sadly. Crap. Quirin didn’t want to upset him, never does. He just wants him to be aware.

“I’ll make you some broth,” he decides, hoping to gloss over it. There’s no reason to needlessly lecture when Varian is wan and possibly on the cusp of feverish delirium anyway.

“Haven’t completely lost your appetite, have you?”

Varian perks up a bit and shakes his head. That’s something of a relief.

“Good. I’ll get to that.” Quirin affectionately ruffles Varian’s hair before making his way to the kitchen.


End file.
